An Undefined Reaction
by Besina
Summary: Something has triggered John, he doesn't know what, and he needs Sherlock more than ever. Part 3 of the Ambiguity series.


John slammed Sherlock against the wall, holding tightly onto his lapels as the door to their flat swung slowly shut. He pulled Sherlock's mouth down to his, kissing desperately. Sherlock allowed this for a moment before pulling back, pulling John's hands from his coat, and raising an eyebrow at him.

"John? I don't understand. This was not an experience which normally prompts that sort of response."

John cupped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him into another kiss, which Sherlock briefly returned, but had to break out of again to continue his thought.

"Neither of us were in danger, John. I don't understand the need…" he was cut off again by more insistent lips this time. Again, he returned the kiss but pulled back before it could be taken much deeper. He peered at John, intrigued. John's eyes were glassy and blown, his hands unable to keep still, roving over Sherlock's shirt, over his chest and sides, repeatedly. His heart rate was elevated and breathing coming fast.

"Why, John?"

John pulled back, panting a little, and tried to gain a little composure, but failed. He looked a wreck. "I don't know, Sherlock. I don't know, but please, help me." He sounded desperate.

Okay, Sherlock thought, he could work with this; it's not as if it was something they'd never done. The circumstances were just different this time. John was suddenly on, and had no idea why, but he was as desperate as he'd ever been, even following their most perilous fear-inducing situations. Sherlock didn't like not knowing why, however, and figuring this out suddenly became his first priority.

"Okay, okay" he said soothingly, pulling John's fingers away from himself once more, before helping John out of his jacket. "Just slowly, alright?"

John nodded vigorously and leaned his head into Sherlock's shoulder, trying to bring his breathing under control. He was shaking slightly. Sherlock leaned down and let John bring his lips back up to meet his, controlling and bringing it into a long, languorous kiss, which seemed to help calm John down and slow his desperation.

Tears were streaming from the sides of John's eyes as Sherlock pulled back once more, ostensibly to start unbuttoning his shirt. Seeing it, however, he caught hold of John's chin, angled his friend's face up toward him and gave him a quizzical look.

"John?"

"I don't know. I don't know, Sherlock. It doesn't feel like crying. It just won't stop."

"Okay," he answered, "let's get to the bedroom. You need more than I can give you out here." Sherlock grabbed hold of John's hips and slowly maneuvered them backward down the hallway to his bedroom, nudging open the door with his foot and turning them to back John down onto the bed.

John scrambled backward on it, righting himself, allowing room for Sherlock to follow, which he did, climbing up on his knees straddling John's legs and moving forward until he straddled John's hips. He sank down slowly, and peeled off his shirt, all the while staring at his friend with a look of interested concern.

John just lay there below him, looking semi-dazed, arms bent up to the sides, palms open, occasionally clenching, staring back and trying to gulp down an enormous knot in his throat, his chest rising and falling at an uncomfortable rate.

Sherlock pulled John's jumper up over his head, then began on his button-down, determined to get to John's skin as quickly as possible, yet still trying to pace things slowly, to help bring his blogger down a bit. Finishing with the front buttons, he worked the ones at John's wrists free, then slid his arms out of them, pulling the shirt off and out from under his friend, depositing it on the floor.

Looking down at John, his friend still looked helpless, pale, and was breathing far too rapidly -not in an aroused way at all, something more fearful. "John," he said, slowly and steadily rubbing his hands up and down his blogger's sternum, "I think you're panicking. Has something set you off?"

John shook his head silently, the not-quite-tears still streaming from his eyes, rolling down the sides of his face and making their presence known on the pillow.

Sherlock continued the chest rub, silently building up some pressure along John's breast bone as he slid his hands up and down. Finally earning a stuttering exhale of breath from John as he began to relax and get control over his respiration.

"M..more, please," he managed, his voice and body still trembling slightly. Sherlock nodded, moving his deft hands over the rest of John's torso, massaging lightly, but thoroughly, slowly adding pressure as he continued. He gradually worked his way to John's shoulders and down his arms, feeling some of the tension give way, but by no means all of it. John trembled again, and Sherlock looked up at him to see more tears flowing from him.

"John…" he said gently, very concerned.

"It's okay, Sherlock, I think…I think it's helping."

"Something must have set you off – triggered you. You can't think of anything?" Sherlock leaned down, pressing himself fully against John's torso.

John shook his head again, sighing at the skin-to-skin contact and the weight of his friend pressing down against him. Something about the weight seemed to help, though he couldn't fathom why. Today had been a very cut and dried case, no running, no deadlines, no crazy people with guns, yet here he was, freaking out in every possible way.

Sherlock's lips made contact with John's neck, and he shivered, closing his eyes.

"Sherlock?" he stuttered.

"Mm?" came the warm breath of inquiry on his neck.

"This is going to sound strange."

"Almost nothing sounds strange to me, John."

"Could, um... could you um, tie me down a bit? For some reason it makes me feel safer. I know that's crazy."

"Not crazy at all John, at least not when you're with someone you trust. Just as babies enjoy the feeling of being swaddled, sometimes being bound can relieve anxiety in adults."

Hardly breaking away from his neck, Sherlock fiddled with his bedside table opening it up and withdrawing something dark.

John turned his head briefly to see a pair of black leather cuffs dangling from Sherlock's grip.

"Sherlock?"

"I find it helps me as well. When I have less that I have control over, during times when I feel overwhelmed, it can help slow my thinking down." He smiled, tight-lipped down at John. "Of course now that you know that about me, perhaps I won't have to be quite so acrobatic in getting myself in and out of them."

Sherlock wrapped one around John's wrist, soothing "Relax, John, relax," as he fastened it closed, wound the fastenings around a clip in the headboard, then repeated the exercise on the other side.

"Feel okay?" Sherlock inquired.

John tested the pull, felt the snugness around his wrists, like someone holding him tightly, and the feeling of surrendering control. Sherlock would take care of him. He knew that instinctively. He exhaled again, still a bit jaggedly, but nodded, "Yeah. S'good."

Sherlock lowered himself back down across John's chest and stomach, beginning to suck and nibble on his neck, his warm breath ghosting across John's flesh raising hairs across his body, and causing John to shudder in a very good way.

"Thinking slowing down?" lips murmured against his skin. John could only nod. "Good," came a satisfied reply, "Now relax and let me take care of you. Do you trust me, John?"

John's forehead wrinkled at the question, "Of course, Sherlock, why would you think…?"

He was cut off by Sherlock's lips still moving against his skin, "Good. Just wanted to hear you say it." Sherlock moved his attentions down to John's collarbone, felt John melt back into the pillows and release a brief moan. A satisfied purr rumbled from detective, and John melted just a little bit more.

Sherlock took his time, alternating between massaging the tightness from John's chest, to deep kisses, to exploring, sucking and nipping at John's body, causing some of the anxiety to morph into desire. He lingered on John's pulse points and at his nipples, causing his blogger to arch off the mattress and groan with each suck. He could feel John's erection pressing at him through their trousers, but chose to ignore it for the meantime. This was going to be a long, drawn-out seduction, meant to bring John down a little at a time before winding him up to release it all at once.

Apart from varied whimpers, John seemed content to let Sherlock control the pace and do whatever he wished to him. It felt good to let go and just allow someone else to take responsibility for everything for a while. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensations being delivered to him. There was nothing he could do to slow things down or speed them up, and that was just fine with him. He would just lay here and enjoy what he was given. His breathing slowed, and his muscles gave a little. Above him, although he couldn't see it with his eyes closed, Sherlock smiled.

The knot in his chest had shrunk from the size of a brick to that of an acorn. Still present, still uncomfortable, but much more manageable, and easier to ignore. He let out another breath as Sherlock kissed his way back across his chest and over his abdomen once more, rubbing his hands over him as he went, then tucking them beneath him to smooth down his back as well. John sighed.

It felt like they'd been doing this for hours. Perhaps they had. His body was limp, save for one area, and Sherlock was slowly making his way down to it. He'd unfastened John's zip and was tugging off his denims and pants all at once. John'd lazily lifted his hips to allow better access, but apart from that still felt like he was floating. When he'd stripped John bare, Sherlock removed the rest of his own clothing and laid back down atop him, the warmth of their bodies mingling. He felt John's erection lined up beside his own, and it gave a gentle throb.

Sherlock nuzzled his ear asking, "How are you feeling, John?"

John stirred a little, rousing himself from what felt like a daydream to answer, "Better, not all the way yet, but better than I was. Still a knot in my chest, but so much less."

"Ready?" he asked.

John responded with a nod, and a reassuring tug against his cuffs.

Sherlock reached inside the open bedside table, removed some lube and slicked up his hand, before reaching between them and sliding it over both their cocks. John pressed back into the mattress and moaned.

Removing his hand, Sherlock wiped it briefly on the sheets before pushing up onto his forearms and beginning to slowly move against John. Agonizingly slowly. It should have been no surprise given how long Sherlock had drawn out the first part, but John's cock wanted nothing to do with slowly now. It pulsed against Sherlock's as John huffed and pulled against his restraints, reminding himself this was Sherlock's game, and he was at the mad genius' mercy. Something about that was even more arousing and he fought to keep his hips from snapping up and quickening the pace.

"Mmmm. Good, John. Very good. Settle. Let me." Sherlock murmured as he kept his body sliding ever so slowly against John's. John's eyes inched closed and his mouth fell open as he breathed his way through it.

Sherlock grunted on the next upstroke, pressing harder against John, cocks sliding slickly past each other again. John panted and moaned, trying to keep himself under control as Sherlock worked them slowly together. The slide backward was nearly as sweetly torturous as the slide forward had been, and John's muscles began to shake, straining against his bonds.

Sherlock lowered his face into the crook of John's neck before pushing forward again, exhaling warmly against his skin, then biting and sucking at his captive friend's neck.

"Oh god…" John rasped.

"Not yet," commanded Sherlock, pressing another slow, deep stroke against him. John could feel Sherlock's muscles beginning to strain against the effort of holding back too.

Another stroke, Sherlock bit his shoulder. John trembled. "You're doing this on purpose," he groaned. Sherlock merely nodded, a small smug smile lighting his face.

"Bastard," John gasped as Sherlock rubbed down and against him again, slowly gyrating his hips.

Now Sherlock was focused on kissing and nipping down the front of his neck, pausing to suck at the collarbone as he slid forward again. There was going to be a mark.

Sherlock captured his mouth on the next stroke, plunging his tongue into John's mouth as he ground into him again. He didn't release it as the next stroke picked up speed and pressure.

John panted and strained up, kissing Sherlock deeply and rubbing counter to his thrusts, keeping them moving against each other nearly continuously.

Sherlock moved to John's ear, licking and biting, hips thrusting ever faster.

John was barely hanging on, "God, Sherlock…" he seemed to have lost all other capability of speech. His whole body was quaking, arms shaking as he pulled against the cuffs once more.

Sherlock took three more quick thrusts, pulling John so close to the edge he could feel himself teetering. As he took the next one, pressing hard, panting into John's ear, he groaned, "Now, John, now."

John needed no further encouragement as he abandoned all self-control, arching skyward as he felt wave after wave wash through and crash over him, his entire body quaking as it spent itself against Sherlock, his hips pushing and pushing, feeling as if it would never stop.

Finally, he came to rest, noticing Sherlock had come at the same time and now lay limply atop him. The detective looked up briefly, dismounted and toweled them both off before lying down beside him again and loosening the cuffs enough for John to slide free.

John pulled his wrists out, then curled up beside Sherlock, clinging to him, tears of exhaustion and relief falling from his eyes.

"Are we better then?" asked a deep baritone, while one hand slowly stroked at John's hair.

John nodded and croaked out a "Yes," before the trembling took him once more and he sobbed into Sherlock's side.

"Stress then?" asked the concerned voice beside him.

"Yeah," panted John. "This. This is good though. It's going away. Cathartic."

The hand continued stroking down his hair, then wandered down his side, picking up and beginning the pattern anew. "Still don't know what caused it?"

John shook his head again. He had no idea. Then again, there were several things about his time in Afghanistan he had yet to understand. Why a seemingly normal day back in London could have possibly set him off, he had no idea, but he was extremely grateful for Sherlock.

Sherlock ran his fingers down John's side a few more times before the doctor fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, while Sherlock, still stymied, silently sat beside him, stroking his flank and pondering.


End file.
